New Truck Smell
by SourCherryBlossom
Summary: Season Four, Episode 12. One-shot. Canon, until Carrie tells Quinn to pull over. Shameless smut with a bit of fluff.


Carrie hung on to her composure for her father's eulogy, but it was a close thing. Maggie looked at her, grateful, as she thoughtfully described her father's well-known habits, likes and dislikes, and accomplishments to the congregated mourners. She joined in the closing hymn, though without much feeling, and afterwards, began to file out of the church with her sister and daughter.

"Well, at least that's over," Carrie said.

"What an ordeal," Maggie agreed. They moved out onto the sunshiny lawn and moved through the crowd, accepting condolences, shaking hands. Carrie leaned her head back, and felt the sun directly on her face, hoping to absorb some warmth from it. She sure wasn't getting much from anywhere else.

It had been a very tough couple of weeks for Carrie, the most difficult of which was the frantic search for Peter Quinn. He had refused orders and left the Embassy campus the night before he was to be evacuated with other high-ranking Embassy personnel. Not that Carrie put him on that flight because his status was on par with the Ambassador, no: she put him on the first flight out because she was worried he'd cut loose and do something crazy, irreparable. She had even put a guard on his door.

But the impulsive bastard had crawled out the window, shimmied down the side of the building, and disappeared. Frantic efforts to find him came to a head with Carrie standing right on top of a bomb, which was meant to kill Hassaim Haqqani. Since doing so would virtually guarantee Quinn's death, Carrie made sure he could see her in the surging crowd, literally daring him to blow her up. They had connected by phone, and Carrie's impassioned plea, that she couldn't lose him: it must have connected in some way. Because he hadn't blown her to bits, along with half a city block. But since that mad afternoon in Rawalpindi, she felt blown to pieces anyway, because he had disappeared. So sad, and so fucked up, that the last words she might have ever heard from Quinn were "Goddamn you, Carrie."

It was in the middle of all this craziness that she got the Skype call from Maggie, informing her tearfully that her Dad had passed away. Carrie was devastated. The first and only person she wanted to call and talk to, was Quinn. But he couldn't be reached. She left a couple of terse voicemails. Then, a tearful one. But he hadn't called. She wondered if he had been killed. It was a good possibility, since ISI and Haqqani had put Peter on the kill lists. She would have been having nightmares about it, if she ever slept.

Yeah, a tough couple of weeks and a tough year. Carrie liked to tell herself that her horrible experiences of the previous two years had not dehumanized her. But as the year progressed, and especially after she lost track of Quinn, her emotions, ability to empathize, her desire for real connection, started to thaw. And she realized how cold and calculating she had been earlier.

Subconsciously, she had known that Quinn had feelings for her, for quite some time. It wasn't clear what kind of feelings, or how deep, but he had always been there. She had come to rely on him in many ways, manipulating and using him, really. It worked, because she knew he cared. It was easy. But now, at her father's funeral his presence felt… required. Not because she wanted to manipulate or use him, but because she had come to rely on him. While speaking, she had scanned the crowd for his face. Kept hoping he'd show up, sit in the back row like a shadow. Now, heart finally warming, she puzzled at the notion: she had figured out that Quinn was important to her, exactly at the moment that he disappeared. Between that and losing her Dad, she was bereft, always looking for ghosts.

Carrie walked around the corner of the church into the lawn, shaking hands with her father's mourners. She stopped for a moment and spoke to her Dad's neighbor, then moved on to an older couple she thought she remembered from her Dad's protest days. Raising her head, she looked out past the denser part of the crowd towards the street, where a tall figure stood. Dark, well-cut suit. Carrie squinted, then realized – it was Quinn.

"Excuse me," she said, stricken, her eyes already leaking a tear. She walked towards Quinn, then walked faster, then trotted. His eyes, steady on her, looked as penetrating as she remembered, with a shine of relief in them, lighting their blue depths. He opened his arms. "Oh, thank God," she said, passionately. "Thank God." Their bodies met in a deep embrace, without the slightest pretense of reserve. She would have held on for an hour, if he let her. "Oh, God," she said, voice full of tears, "I was so worried about you."

"Things were worrisome, there, for a while," Quinn said, holding her close. The master of understatement, she thought, and almost laughed. A wound-up, miserable, intense pain, which had lived in Carrie's chest since the day she last saw him, eased and unknotted. Finally, he let her go.

"You doing ok?" he asked, sympathetically.

"Yeah, I'm ok," Carrie answered, and in her mind, she finished the sentence. "Now that you're here."

Quinn had missed the funeral, but Carrie indicated that he should come back to her family's home with her, for the after-service get together, snacks, and companionship.

"I'll take you," he said, indicating his new ride, over his shoulder. She didn't answer, just started walking with Quinn, towards his vehicle, which turned out to be a new pickup truck. "Nice," she said briefly, as she got inside. He took off his suit jacket and threw it in the extended cab, rolling up his shirtsleeves in the warm afternoon. Carrie was unable to keep herself from sneaking peeks at Quinn's forearms, which were tanned and muscular. God, she thought, what is wrong with me? I just walked out of my Dad's funeral, and now I'm a sex pervert, gaping at my... what? Carrie realized she was about to mentally finish that sentence with the word "friend", but then realized it wasn't enough.

She directed Quinn back towards Maggie's house, and on the way, he described how he'd lost Haqqani and gotten out of Pakistan in one piece with the help of German intelligence. Looking straight ahead, she tried to tell herself that the unpleasant sensation in her stomach wasn't jealousy.

She had been through so much, so much trauma, grief, things beyond her control, loss and misery. During the weeks she lost track of him, Carrie felt Quinn's absence terribly. Now, he was back. Not only was he back, he was _here_. He had _come right to her_. On one of the worst days of her life. It was a gift, and the discharge of anxiety was so great, knowing he was here and safe… knowing he cared. It was almost as overwhelming as losing him in the first place.

She put her hand on her forehead, her body deciding on something that it hadn't discussed with her mind. "Pull over here, will you, Quinn?"

He looked over at her, concerned. "You ok?" he asked.

They were on a stretch of county road between Dad's church and Maggie's subdivision. Quinn pulled off on the wide shoulder, put the truck in park. "Are you going to be sick?" he asked, about to get out and come around to help, the concern, even love, on his face so obvious it might have been written with magic marker. She still didn't say anything, a tidal wave of feeling building in her, her hand still on her forehead. Quinn reached over and put a hand on her knee.

"Carrie, what is it?"

There was an undercurrent – a thrum of intense relief – a sense that all the good things in her life had one by one been lost, because she had not been open to them. A feeling of uneasiness, that there would never be anyone as good to her as Quinn had been, and never a better moment to speak her mind. He would think she was off her meds, he would think she was having PMS. After the way she'd treated him, could he possibly believe that she was already ¾ down the road towards a torrid love affair with him? That she had spent the last fifteen minutes fantasizing about his forearms? She was already a ball of sexual frustration, and the funeral had brought her emotions to a ripe peak.

She wanted to say, "I need a minute," but she couldn't get that out. She dropped her head straight back, resting on the trucks headrest, and looked at the sky. Helplessly, hands open in her lap, without a sound, Carrie began to cry, her chest trembling with contained sobs, tears running straight back from the corners of her eyes.

"Oh, hey," Quinn said, realizing how overcome she was. "Hey, come here." Her head-back, weak posture disturbed him, he didn't like to think of her that vulnerable. And if she was, he was going to cover her. "Come here, Carrie." He reached over to her, and she sat up and rolled her head to his shoulder. Her crying was still silent, and he wanted to get his arms completely around her. "Want me to take you home?" he asked, trying anything to please.

Both the kindness of the question and the absolutely wrong place it suggested popped Carrie's last boundary, and the next time she caught her breath, and opened her mouth, the truth came out. "No," she said, desolately. "I want you to hold me."

He gave a start at that, and realizing that it wasn't going to work, with the way the truck seats were made, he let go of Carrie for a moment, and shut off the engine, saying, "Just wait a minute." Quinn got out of the pickup, and walked to the passenger side, where he opened the door, and helped Carrie out. She stood weeping, face in hands on the shoulder of the road, while he adjusted the seat all the way back, then got back in. He reached down to her, and grabbed both arms. "Come to me," he said. She got in, and shut the door behind herself.

When she was seated inside, he arranged her on his lap, head on his shoulder, arm across his chest, his arms around her. All personal barriers were shattered – at that moment she was so grateful for him, so ruined inside, that he could have suggested anything, touched her anywhere, and she would have allowed it. But he just held her, said comforting things, made comforting noises.

The emotional overflow continued in the form of tears, until she settled a bit. His hands and arms were covering her, and in this intimate shelter, she felt safe for the first time since she lost him. She noticed how close she was to Quinn's mouth. Seated on his lap, head on his shoulder, her mouth was inches away from his angular jaw, his sensual lips. How had she not noticed before, how beautiful he was? It was almost indecent. Quinn's warmth was comforting, he held her tenderly. She briefly considered the possibility that he only wanted to be friends, then decided that if he did, he could tell her that.

"Thank you for this," she said.

"I'm glad to be here," Quinn said, sincerely.

"If I ask you for something else, will you tell me if I'm horrible?" she said, wondering how obvious she was being.

Quinn's hands stroked her back, her side, the very sides of her breasts. "You're never horrible," he said. Oh, God, her devoted Quinn. How had she not seen it?

"Well if this is indecent, please tell me no. But I want you to make love to me. Right now," she said. His whole body jerked and stiffened at the proposal.

"Wow, that's," Quinn said, seemingly losing his way in a simple sentence. "That's..." he struggled on.

"Please?" Carrie said, and the leash was off. Quinn lifted her head from his shoulder, captured her face in his hands, and kissed her, as she straddled his lap.

His hands on her body grew more bold, as he stroked and caressed her. His mouth opened and his tongue gently explored her, as their embrace became less one of comfort. They wrestled together to arrange their bodies so Quinn could yank Carrie's panties down, and then off. Then she reached for his pants, working the fly and freeing his cock. "Oh, my God," he said, as her hands made contact.

He was quite tender with his kisses, one hand scooping up the back of her head, burying itself in her hair. His other hand cupped her breasts, through the silky black fabric. Carrie moved as if to mount him, but then didn't, just made contact between the outside of her slit and outside of Quinn's cock. And rocking her hips forward, shimmying like a belly dancer, she rubbed herself on him, stimulated herself on him, moving up and down. He groaned into her mouth, and pulled her hair to get at her neck.

Quinn's hands were comforting, healing. He had been letting her control the action, and had not spoke since they started their carnal embrace. But as he kissed his way down her neck - tussling irritably with her dress, she could tell he wanted her to be naked – he finally spoke. His tone of voice suggested peril at any refusal, a threat of pleasure that would loosen her joints and rend her asunder. "Do you want me to make love to you?" he panted, "Or, do you want me to fuck you?" He clearly had a choice in mind, and was rapidly losing his self control.

Either would be fine, she thought with insane cheer, already half out of her mind with arousal. "Fuck me," she gasped.

Quinn took over. He shifted, arranged his cock, held himself as he found her entrance and moved the head inside. Carrie made a series of very high, soft cries, almost wailing, as he penetrated her. He heaved his hips upward, and holding her waist, brought her farther down. His expression grim, like he was deflowering a struggling virgin. Her head was thrown back, she, still crying out, needing so badly to be filled, and utilized for pleasure, by someone who loved her. Her life before had been emptiness, darkness. Quinn's hands, his lips, had set her aflame. Her head tilted forward again, looking down into his eyes, which met hers, as he grabbed her waist and pushed her completely down. Now, he was all the way inside of her, she sat deeply on top of him, legs spread on either side, skewered on his prick. He was rock hard.

"Is this what you wanted?" he murmured, breathing in her ear. He began to pump her, using arms, legs, and cock to lift her slight weight each time he thrust. He went almost too deep, and she gasped. "You want me to fuck you. I'm glad to hear it," he said, grabbing a handful of soft buttock on each side, and pinching, "I'm glad to hear it, because I've wanted to fuck you for years." The severity, the certainty in his voice, the apprehension that he had already fucked her in his mind a thousand times and that this was a dream come true – she knew it. She wagged her hips lasciviously, gave herself over to him with abandon. Kissing his neck, holding on for dear life, and in his ear, moaning his name, making him lunge all the faster. "Quinn," she sighed.

Their pace quickened, they both knew they could not prolong car sex, but still, she sighed, "Please, make me come, please." "Are you begging, Carrie," he asked, prodding her, his onslaught driving forward, his cock, about as big as she'd care to accommodate, and still call it pleasurable.

"I'm begging," she moaned. She really was. If he didn't finish her, she'd finish herself on the ride.

"I'll please you then, because you begged," he said, enjoying the superiority, enjoying his size, enjoying being the larger person and able to manipulate her body so easily. He reached under her dress and began to rub her clit and her labia with a strong hand, a stroke so intense it was almost vibrating. Her cunt responded, and she rose and fell, moaning, on his cock.

Two cars shot by at sixty miles an hour, and didn't stop. She wondered if people had seen anything, and felt all the more voluptuous for being on display. Quinn's fingers were insistent, and clever, and with all the other tension and stimulus, Carrie's orgasm was near, pending, and it was huge. He felt her wetness on his cock, he felt her letting go, and then she did, plunging through the barriers of pain, misery, desire, and finding release in his arms, on his prick. She actually screeched when her climax hit her, so intense was it, that she actually lost consciousness for a few seconds, the world washing gray around her, the only reality, Peter's shoulder where her head rested, and his cock, which was now shooting, filling her, as Quinn finished himself deep inside with a grunt.

Breathing heavily, arms entwined, they were still. Carrie's head still down on Quinn's shoulder, his arms still wrapped around her protectively. His head inclined forward, nose in her soft hair, smelling her. Sweet perfume, Carrie's skin, and now the smell of their sex, filled the cab. Breathing it in, feeling her softness, he held her all the tighter. It was a moment he didn't want to break. If they hadn't been sitting in a truck by the side of the road, but rather in a soft bed, they would have both gone to sleep like this.

Ten minutes passed, neither wanting to rupture the feeling. Love and comfort, thought Carrie. I've really been missing out. Finally, Quinn spoke.

"Hey. Carrie," he said in an almost-whisper. "We probably need to get to your Dad's house."

Reluctantly, she lifted up her head, feeling him slide out of her, a dull ache in her heart, the moment he was gone. She kissed him, and he returned the kiss tenderly. She wasn't sure what to say next, so just commenced getting dressed and helping straighten up.

Now fully clothed, looking only the smallest bit disheveled, Quinn got back on the driver's side, started the truck, and pulled back onto the highway.

He reached over, grabbed Carrie's hand. He held it to his lips and kissed it. Still holding her hand, he relaxed his arm so their hands could rest together on the seat. But didn't let go.

"I think it's time for honesty, Quinn," she said. He visibly cringed, evidently thinking that this was an itch being scratched, a one time thing. Boy, was he in for a surprise.

"I think we should get together. After we're done with the dinner, or maybe tomorrow."

"Yes… ok. Get together and talk?" he said, warily.

"Yes, talk," Carrie said. "But in a room with a bed, where it's ok to take our clothes off."

He smiled, suddenly getting it, and kissed her hand again.

"Carrie," he said, "I'm so glad to see you."

She blinked back tears. "Me too."


End file.
